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Lonesome 

Trail 

Ms 

Grace Hendricks 


1918 

SAULSBURY PUBLISHING COMPANY 
BALTIMORE, MARYLAND 


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MAY 23 I9i8 




Copyright 1918 

BY GRACE HENDRICKS. 



LONESOME TRAIL. 


RS. CHANDLER turned from the train 



I V Jl window and gazed at the big, coarse- 
looking man beside her. She saw for the 
first time the weakness in his receding chin, 
the cruelty in the Satanic curve of his lip; 
the arrogance in his forehead and eyes. 
Every trait in his character repulsed her. 

Tears came welling up into her big, gray 
eyes, and her adorable, crumpled lips quiver- 
ed like a hurt baby's. How could mothers 
be so cruel as to marry their daughters off 
to such brutes because they happened to be 
wealthy? What were riches to such a girl 
as she, who hated the shallow, useless lives 
which the luxury-loving millionaires lived? 
She detested the sham and tinsel of New 
York society. That was one reason why she 
reluctantly married Ralph Chandler. He 
would take her to Alaska to live, for he was 
one of the wealthiest mine owners there. 
She would live out in the big, interesting, 
busy world, which called to her so irresisti- 
bly. The four walls of New York would 
hamper and imprison her no more. 

Her husband began to gather up their 
bundles. '‘We are near Vancouver," he said, 
and even as he spoke the train stopped amid 


6 


Lonesome Trail. 


a chaos of grinding brakes and creaking 
wheels. 

The next day they set out on the long trail 
that would end at Nome. 

They traveled steadily northward, sleep- 
ing in rude shelters at night, and cooking 
their food over the glowing coals of the 
camp-fire. 

Comrade loved this way of traveling. It was 
new to her, and strange. She drank in the 
keen frosty air like wine, reveled in the glor- 
ious beauty of the wild, majestic scenery. 
When they arrived at a high altitude, where 
she could get entrancing views of the distant 
mountains, silvery rivers and dark, lake be- 
jeweled valleys, she stood and gazed so long 
that Chandler often reminded her sarcasti- 
cally that this was not her goal. 

On the fourteenth day of travel they ar- 
rived at Camp Lacroix, a timber camp owned 
by the giant French-Canadian, Andre La- 
croix. Here Comrade saw large, muscular, 
handsome men, felling the gigantic trees of 
the forest. She admired these big clean- 
souled men more than she cared to tell. 
There was no evil, no vice, no farce among 
them. They were raw and primitive per- 
haps, but still brave, kind and honorable. 

One of them, a strong young god, in bright 
macinaw and hood, with his trousers encased 
at his ankles in rough high shoes, saw them. 


Lonesome Trail. 


7 


and jerking off his hood, came running down 
to the trail where Comrade and her husband 
stood. 

'‘Good evening,” he said. 

The wind tossed his brown hair back from 
a broad intelligent forehead, and a smile of 
welcome and good fellowship shone on his 
handsome face. 

"We have been expecting you long before 
this, Mr. Chandler. Will you honor our poor 
little camp to-night, and abide with us?” 

. "Yes,” said Chandler. Turning to Com- 
rade, he said: "Mrs. Chandler, Mr. Victor 
Bernarde.” 

"Oh, and that is what called you to the 
States, Ralph? Why didn't you tell us?” 
smiled Victor. "Give me your pack, -Mrs. 
Chandler, I will carry it for you. Lord,” 
he laughed, "but won't mother Lacroix be 
glad to see a woman again? She is the only 
W’oman in our camp and she hasn't seen one 
of her own sex in eight years!” 

Comrade laughed with him. He turned to 
the busy men. 

"I'm going on to camp with our friends, 
boys,” he said. "Get your axes and come 
on. You have worked enough to-day.” 

"All right, Boss,” they said, and Comrade 
saw a look of reverence in their eyes when 
they looked at their "Boss.” 

When they arrived at camp a large, smil- 


8 


Lonesome Trail. 


ing woman opened her door to see what had 
caused her ''boys’" to come home so early. 
When she saw Comrade she ran down the 
slope as fast as her fat, portly body allowed. 

"Why, Ralph,” she cried, "have you 
brought this bonny wee lass to live up there 
in that rough country?” 

"Of course, Madame,” he replied. "Other 
women can stand it. I suppose she can,* too.” 

"Are you tired, dearie?” asked Mother 
Lacroix. 

"Yes, mother, very tired.” 

"Then come and rest thysel’ while I pre- 
pare the supper.” 

Comrade was ushered into the house. 
Madame gave her a cup of steaming coffee, 
removed her hood, coat and gloves and bade 
her lie down and rest. 

From the window Comrade could see the 
sun sinking behind a high ridge. She jerked 
on her coat and hood, told Mother LaCroix 
she felt better and was going to see the sun- 
set. She forgot her fatigue when there was 
such wondrous beauty around her. 

Panting, she finally reached the top of her 
lookout. 

Spread out to the westward was a bewil- 
dering panorama of hills, valleys, silvery, 
sinuous rivers and blue lakes; away in the 
distance rose a chain of magnificent, snow- 
capped peaks. Behind the mountains the 


Lonesome Trail. 


9 


sun was slowly sinking, changing the sky 
into gold, vermilion and purple. It tinged 
the fleecy clouds with living, brilliant fire, 
and over all hung a gossamer mist of topaz 
and opal. 

Comrade stood entranced. The gentle 
breeze loosened her golden hair and sent the 
curls dancing about her face. 

*'Oh, how beautiful,'^ she exclaimed. ‘‘How 
exquisitely beautiful !” 

“That is just exactly what I think,” said 
a low, soft voice at her side. 

Turning she looked into the fine, twinkling 
eyes of Victor Bernarde. 

“Oh,” she said jealously, “I thought I had 
all this grandeur to myself. I believed I had 
a monopoly on it,” she laughed. 

“No, no, the world is mine, and all the 
beauty therein,” he answered gravely. 
“Why, my sun would never set if I did not 
come here to watch him,” he continued, try- 
ing to convince her of his ownership. 

“Do you really come up here every even- 
ing to watch it?” Comrade thought that 
men were immune to the charms of beauty. 

“Yes, and it is always beautiful, but not 
always like that. Sometimes there are only 
great foamy gray clouds, with no other color 
except a cold slate-gray. When the skies are 
like that we know a blizzard is coming upon 
us.” 


10 


Lonesome Trail. 


Slowly, the beautiful colors faded, the 
shadows of the firs lengthened, the stars 
crept out and twinkled like diamonds in the 
clear, cold firmament. Night was folding 
her soothing wings over the weary world. 

Comrade’s reverie was broken. 

‘‘The curtain has gone down, and all the 
splendor has been hid from me,” she sighed. 
“I am going back to Mother Lacroix.” 

“Yes,” he replied,” the play is over for to- 
night.” Slowly they descended the craggy, 
winding path to the house. 

Supper was ready and the boys began to 
take their places at the long table. Chandler 
came in and condescendingly took his place. 
There was a sharp contrast between the 
giants of the northwoods and him. Their 
eyes were bright and fearless. They could 
look the world in the face ; while Chandler’s 
pale-blue, shifty eyes were downcast. Their 
flesh was hard and sinewy, and his was soft, 
flabby and vice-corroded. By nature they 
were frank, friendly and cheerful. Chan- 
dler ate his food in sullen, moody silence. 
When they spoke to him he answered 
brusque, some, sneeringly. He was so arro- 
gant, so self-centered that they ceased talk- 
ing to him. 

The next day when he asked for a guide 
no man volunteered to go. They knew that 
his guide would be his slave. 


Lonesome Trail. 


11 


Victor had talked with his men, and each 
one firmly refused to go. 

“If he is too good to eat at the same table 
with us, he is too good for any of us to 
guide,” they said. 

“Very well, then. I'll go,” said Victor. “He 
can't go without a guide, and anyway, I may 
as well go now as next week. I can take him 
as far as Camp Leblanc. Then he can get 
another man there to go on to Dawson with 
him. I won't have far to return to “Lone- 
some House.” 

He told Chandler that he was going with 
him. 

“All right,” he said, “I suppose you'll do. 
Are you acquainted with this trail?” 

“Yes, I have traveled it many times.” 

“Be prepared to start at dawn. We want 
to travel swiftly. All my property in Nome 
will go to ruin if I can't get there soon. Get 
good sleigh dogs, plenty of blankets, food — 
everything that we will need. I leave all that 
to you,” he said. 

He strode olf toward the company store, 
where he bought heavier, warmer clothing 
for himself. He paid no attention to Com- 
rade's comfort. He was so utterly selfish 
that he could think of no one else. 

When Victor began to pack Comrade's out- 
fit into a compact bundle, he was astonished 
at the pitiful inadequacy of it. He spoke to 


12 


Lonesome Trail. 


Chandler concerning it. To Victor’s sur- 
prise he flew into an awful rage. His puffy 
face became livid in his anger. 

‘'Mind your own damned business,” he 
snarled. ‘T gave her money to buy decent 
clothes, and if she didn’t have sense enough 
to buy something to keep her from freezing 
to death, just let her freeze stiff in her shoes. 
She does everything she can do to delay me. 
I tell you I have got to get to my gold, woman 
or no woman.” 

Victor said no more, but went quietly abou^ 
his work, but that night he found time to go 
to the store. He bought a warm macinaw, 
hood, gloves and heavy shoes. He went soft- 
ly to “Mother Lacroix” room and rapped on 
the door. When she appeared he gave her 
the bundles saying: 

“Mother, please deliver these to Mrs. 
Chandler, and tell her that her husband 
wishes her to dress warmly, for there are 
signs of a blizzard on the morrow.” 

* * * :Jc 

Next morning at dawn Victor was up feed- 
ing the dogs, tightening cinches and mend- 
ing the harness. Comrade could hear his 
shoes crunching the fine snow, could hear 
his low, soft voice as he petted and praised 
the faithful dogs. Then she heard the loud 
discordant voice of her husband urging Vic- 


Lonesome Trail. 


13 


tor to make haste, make haste, for time was 
flying. 

Comrade stepped out into the keen, frosty 
air, a vision of loveliness in her dark plaid 
coat, black fur hood, short woolen skirt, stout 
shoes and leggings. Her clear, gray eyes 
sparkled from sheer happiness. Chandler 
was hurrying around, pretending to do ev- 
erything, really doing nothing at all. He 
kicked the dogs, cursed the men and the 
weather. 

Finally every bundle was strapped upon 
the sleds, every buckle and strap of the har- 
ness clinched. Victor shouted to the pranc- 
ing dogs, and, amid the jingling of chains, 
the cheers and farewells of the men, they 
glided away over the smooth untrodden 
snow. 

The sky became dark and foreboding. A 
fine swirling snow stung their faces, and the 
cold biting wind chilled them to the bone. 
They took turns at walking to keep the blood 
coursing through their veins and the mus- 
cles from becoming stiff. 

Victor was like a happy boy. He reveled 
in the stinging snow, the chilling wind. He 
did not lose patience with his dogs, but Chan- 
dler was continually beating and cursing 
his. He would not let Comrade ride with 
him, telling her that she bothered him. Vic- 
tor placed her on his sled and covered her 


14 


Lonesome Trail. 


with blankets and polar-bear skins. She felt 
very desolate and forsaken, and turned her 
face away to keep Victor from knowing that 
she was crying ; but he knew, and a cold hard 
glint flashed in his blue eyes and his lips 
changed to a straight determined line. 

Chandler was forcing his dogs beyond en- 
durance. He kept far ahead of Victor and 
Comrade. When they chanced to overtake 
him Victor remonstrated with him about the 
killing pace of his exhausted dogs. He turn- 
ed on him with an insane glitter in his little 
blood-shot eyes. 

hired you to be my guide, not my boss,'' 
he yelled. And on he went. Frequently a 
poor, tired dog would fall, but he was kicked 
back into line and went staggering on. 

When they stopped for the night, Victor ‘ 
built roaring fires of dead fir branches, and 
Comrade cooked the dried venison and 
boiled the coffee while he made shelters to 
keep out the wind and snow. 

Chandler remained sullen and uncommuni- 
cative. Victor tried to get him to talk, but 
to no avail. His mind was concentrated on 
one thing — ^to get to his gold as swiftly as 
possible. 

For many, long, fatiguing days they trav- 
eled. The snow fell continually. The trees 
became dwarfed, the days shorter and colder. 
The silence and barrenness sickened them. 


Lonesome: Trail. 


15 


Chandler grew more silent and morose as the 
weary nerve-racking days dragged on. Vic- 
tor watched him with growing concern. He 
had seen men turn into raving maniacs in the 
limitless miles of death and desolation. If 
Chandler had talked and shared his thought 
with them his brain wouldn't have snapped 
under the strain. He taxed himself beyond 
endurance. 

Victor kept close watch over him, but one 
night, being overcome from loss of sleep he 
slept soundly. A sharp cry of agony awoke 
him. He sprung to his feet, and saw the dark 
form of Chandler crouching over one of the 
dogs. He held the dog's head up by the ear 
and slashed at its throat. Victor leaped up- 
on him, but too late; the dog sank to the 
ground, the head almost severed from the 
body. With a yell of hatred Chandler threw 
himself against Victor, the long bloody knife 
gleaming in his hand. 

Then there followed a battle royal. One 
man, strong, cool, alert, was pitted against 
a maniac whose strength was superhuman. 
They wrestled and stumbled in the bloody 
snow. 

Victor's feet slipped and he fell to the 
ground with Chandler's heavy weight upon 
his chest. With a wild triumphant snarl the 
maniac lifted his bloody knife, but his wrist 


16 


Lonesome Trail. 


was caught in a vise-like grip and the weap- 
on fell from his hand. 

Victor finally overpowered him and bound 
his wrists behind him. 

“Turn me loose, you dog,’’ he cried. “Til 
kill you! You have retarded me ever since 
we left camp. I have killed the cursed dogs, 
and I have killed that infernal she-devil, too. 
She will bother me no more. I’ll go on to 
Nome alone.” With an awful glitter in his 
little eyes he strained at the cords that held 
him. 

With a wildly beating heart Victor dashed 
into the shelter where Comrade lay. The 
white bear-skins on which she slept were 
dark with blood. From an ugly gash in her 
bosom the blood was slowly oozing. Her 
hair rippled like living gold around her 
ghastly face. Frantically Victor tore her 
robe away from the ugly wound and staunch- 
ed the flow of blood with his handkerchief. 
Her pulse beat ever so faintly. He heated 
brandy before the blazing fire and forced it 
into her mouth; he chafed her hands and 
rubbed snow upon her forehead. 

Dawn had come before there were any 
signs of returning consciousness. Then a 
faint tinge of color crept into her face, her 
eyelids fluttered, and with a weary sigh she 
looked into the haggard, drawn face of the 
man bending over her. 


Lonesome Trail. 


17 


Victor had forgotten the maniac, but when 
life returned to Comrade he ran to the tree 
where he had left him. The cords were 
broken, the prisoner gone. He glanced at 
Chandler's sleigh, and saw that his pack and 
gun were missing. In his demoniacal brain 
only one thought was running — ^to get to 
Nome, to get to Nome. 

The young guide was at his wits' end. He 
could not leave Comrade, he must keep her 
warm and stimulated or the slender thread 
on which her life hung would break. She 
was so weak from loss of blood, that she lay 
in a stupor, unable to speak or move. 

The dogs whined piteously and he remem- 
bered that they had not been given their 
food. He fed and praised them, and in re- 
turn they leaped joyously around him, licked 
his hand and worshiped him. 

He heard Comrade moan, and went to her 
but she was delirious, and looked at him 
blankly w^hen he talked to her. 

He renewed the fire, and cut more fir 
branches with which he made her shelter 
warmer. They had food in plenty, and he 
decided to remain there until Comrade was 
able to go on or stay in camp while he 
searched for the luckless millionaire. 

For two days and nights he patiently wait- 
ed and worked. Comrade was much strong- 
er, but still delirious. Fever had set in and 


18 


Lonesome Trail. 


he determined to take her on to his old home, 
which was twenty miles up the trail. Here 
she would have a comfortable bed, and there 
was medicine in the house that would bring 
her back to health. By chance Chandler had 
gone in that direction. Victor hoped that he 
might overtake him, before he froze or 
wolves attacked him. 

Swiftly he cut fresh branches and placed 
them on his sleigh. He got Chandler's bear- 
skins and blankets and made a soft bed, then 
he lifted her tenderly in his arms and car- 
ried her to the sleigh. She smiled her ador- 
able smile and chattered in her delirium. He 
warmed the other skins and tucked them 
snugly around her to keep out the biting 
wind. 

The sky was a dull slate-gray, a fine pow- 
dery snow began to fall. A blizzard was 
coming. Victor looked at the skies with an 
awful ache at his heart. Oh, how he prayed 
that he could get her to ‘‘Lonesome House" 
before it hurled itself upon them! 

The trail was good and the dogs eager to 
go. Mile after mile was swiftly left behind. 
Victor kept sharp lookout for Chandler, but 
the new-fallen snow had obliterated his foot- 
prints, so he went swiftly on. 

At noon he stopped, built a fire, made 
strong coffee and some steaming broth for 
Comrade. He sat on the edge of the sleigh 


Lonesome Trail. 


19 


and fed her as if she were a little child. She 
drank hungrily, still smiling and talking in 
her delirium. Again he warmed the furs 
and tucked them around her. She soon sank 
into peaceful sleep. 

The shadows were lengthening, when they 
came in sight of ‘'Lonesome House.'' The 
long quivering cry of a wolf rent the stillness 
and Victor turned to look in the direction 
from which that sound came. Others took 
up the cry. They were after some animal, 
he thought. A chill flashed along his spine 
as he realized what prey they were chasing. 
Just then he saw something dark and indis- 
tinct across the trail far ahead. There fol- 
lowed more smaller leaping forms. 

For the first time the dogs felt the sting of 
his whip as he urged them on. He swung his 
Winchester free and and saw that it was. 
loaded. 

On and on he sped over the smooth trail, 
every nerve and muscle tense. Now the dark 
forms were more distinct. He saw Chandler 
turn and face his relentless foe; saw him 
stumble and then up through the silence 
came the sharp report of his rifle as he fell. 
With a long triumphant wail the leading 
wolf sprang upon him: Crash ! the wolf fell 
dead across the body of its prey. The others 
dashed on, undaunted. Another sharp re- 
port echoed across the boundless waste, and 


20 


Lonesome Trail. 


a white-fanged wolf leaped high into the air, 
then sank quivering to the ground. Again 
and again Victor drew his gun and a wolf 
fell dead at each report. The rest of the 
pack were baffled and dashed away into cov- 
er of the forest. 

Victor halted the excited dogs and ran to 
Chandler's side. He lay sprawled upon the 
snow, a bullet hole in his throat. The jugu- 
lar vein was severed, the gushing blood color- 
ing the snow with crimson. His wickedly 
gleaming eyes were staring into the evening 
sky. 

Victor called his trusty little dogs, and on 
they came, bearing the sleigh on which Com- 
rade lay, undisturbed. He felt her pulse to 
convince himself that she was living. Then 
he took a strong cord and bound the stiffen- 
ing form of Chandler to his empty sled, and 
on they went through the gathering gloom. 

A sigh of relief escaped his lips as he drew 
up to the low, rambling stone house, which 
he called “Lonesome House.” 

He unlocked the door, returned to Com- 
rade and tenderly carried her in and placed 
her in the bed. In the kitchen he found plen- 
ty of dry wood, and he soon had a cheerful 
fire blazing in the broad fireplace. He heated 
brandy, forced it into her mouth and soon 
revived her from her lethargy. 


Lonesome Trail. 


21 


The corpse of Chandler was taken into an 
adjoining room and covered with a sheet. 

When he returned to Comrade he found 
her pitifully excited. With her big eyes 
filled with tears and her soft red lips quiver- 
ing she looked like a baby that had been 
awakened by a horrible dream. She called 
“dad” and “mother.” She pleaded for help, 
saying Ralph was killing her. When she 
screamed for Mr. Bernarde he lifted her 
head to his shoulder and clasped her closely 
to him, and she became quiet and fell asleep 
on his breast. He laid her gently on the pil- 
low, heated water, found clean, white cloths 
and washed and dressed the gaping wound. 

Night came swiftly bringing with it the 
blizzard. The snow beat against the win- 
dows like sand ; the wind roared and howled 
dismally around the eaves. Victor drew the 
warm blanket over Comrade's tired little 
body and thanked God that he had got her 
there in time. 

He prepared supper for himself and kept 
some steaming broth for his patient when 
she awoke. Her fever was yet far above 
normal, but she drank her soup with relish. 

All that night and all next day the blizzard 
raged. On the third day the wind fell, and 
the body of Chandler was buried. 

For three long harrowing weeks Comrade 
hovered between life and death. During 


22 


Lonesome Trail. 


that time Victor never slept, except to doze 
in a chair by her bed. His face became as 
white and worn as that of his patient. 

One day he had been out cutting some 
wood. When he came in she was asleep. He 
drew off his glove and laid his hand softly 
on her forehead. Slowly the big, wistful 
eyes opened and she looked into the anxious 
handsome face of Victor. Her forehead was 
cool and moist, the crisis was past. Victor^s 
heart leaped for pure joy, when she smiled 
a welcome recognition. 

She turned her eyes about and looked at 
the room in which she lay. The walls were 
of plaster, and many beautiful pictures hung 
upon them. In one corner was a large piano, 
and on a beautifully made library table were 
many books, magazines and papers. On each 
side of the south window were well stocked 
built-in book cases. In the deep window- 
seats were cushions of brilliant hued velvet 
and satin. The floor was carpeted in Brus- 
sels ; the windows were draped in warm 
tinted velvet and on a comfortable divan lay 
an Aeolian harp, as if some musician had 
played indolently. A large armchair was 
drawn close to her bed, and in it, carelessly 
flung, lay a man's bright plaid macinaw, 
hood and gloves. 

Her eyes met the kind, laughing twinkle 
of the eyes holding hers. 


Lonesome Trail. 


23 


‘*Where in the world am I?” she asked the 
handsome, happy Victor. 

Her lovely white brow was puckered into 
a thoughtful frown. 

‘‘Oh, I know. Oamp Lacroix!'' 

“Whew 1" he whistled, “missed it two hun- 
dred miles. I suppose I'll have to tell you. 
You are in a big stone house in northwest 
Canada. My own home, my ‘Lonesome 
House' at the end of ‘Lonesome Trail.' You 
remember I told you of it on our way up 
here?" he asked. 

“Yes, I remember, but I don't understand 
how I — " she accidentally dropped her hand 
heavily across her breast, and a cry of pain 
escaped her lips, while a look of terror 
crossed her face." 

“Where is Mr. Chandler?" she asked 
abruptly. 

His face became soft in his sympathy. 

“Mrs. Chandler, what is the last thing you 
remember before you awoke here?" he said. 
Again came the flash of horror upon her 
face. 

“I think — it seems as if I could see Ralph 
standing over me with a poised knife; but 
it must be a dream, although it is very vivid 
and I can't forget," she smiled. “But you 
haven't answered my question. Where is 
Ralph, and why doesn't he come to me?" 


24 


Lonesome Trail. 


‘‘Do you think you are strong enough to 
hear some bad tidings?” 

“Yes, yes, tell me!” Victor went to the 
window and drew aside the heavy curtain. 
He returned to her, and, lifting her tenderly, 
placed another pillow under her head. “Now, 
can you see that big, kingly pine out there?” 

“Yes.” 

“Look beneath its spreading branches and 
you can see the grave where he is sleeping.” 

Her wan little face turned as white as the 
pillow under her head, her thin hands trem- 
bled violently, and the tears splashed over 
her deep-fringed lashes and rolled down her 
satiny cheeks. 

“Oh, what shall I do ? Alone and far from 
friends and kindred, am I. How did he die, 
and where and when ? Tell me all,” she said. 

He told her of Chandler's insanity; of his 
attempt to hill her ; how the death-cry of the 
dog aroused him; of his struggle and tri- 
umph over the maniac. He told her how he 
had forgotten him while trying to revive her 
and of his escape. His voice trembled when 
he told her how near death she had been, 
that he could not leave her to search for him. 
He related the tragedy of his death, but did 
not mention the hungry wolves. 

“How long have I been here?” 

“Three weeks.” 

“How long do you think it will be until I 


Lonesome Trail. 


25 


will be strong enough to go back? I'll have 
to go back home. Poor Ralph, I forgive you, 
for you knew not what you did," and she 
looked long at the grave under the whisper- 
ing pines. 

“It will require at least two months for 
your health to return. Your vitality was 
sapped both by your lingering illness and the 
loss of blood. We could not go back now if 
you were perfectly well. The night I arrived 
here with you, there came one of the most 
terrific blizzards that I have ever known 
even for this country. The trail is literally 
lost. Great drifts of snow forty feet deep 
are piled up everywhere, and trees were torn 
from the ground and hurled across our path. 
I'm afraid we will have to stay here four or 
five months." 

Comrade's crumpled lips looked danger- 
ously ready to cry, but she held back the 
tears and said : “And I will be a burden to 
you a long time yet. I owe you a debt of 
gratitude which I can't repay, but I want you 
to know that from my heart I thank you, I 
thank you." 

“You repay me with your presence," he 
answered gravely. He went to the mantel, 
and returned with a comb and brush. He 
hesitated, embarrassed. 

“I'm almost afraid to offer to comb and 
brush your hair now, Mrs. Chandler," he 


26 


Lonesome Trail. 


laughed. “Every day ’while you were delir- 
ious I combed it for you, and you made no 
protest, you acted perfectly charming about 
it, laughing and talking all the time.’’ Her 
face crimsoned. 

“Fll brush it myself now,’^ she said reach- 
ing for the brush. 

“No, no, I wouldn't let you have this brush 
for anything under the sun. You must not, 
under any circumstances, move your arms 
about. You would break open that wound 
after I had such a desperate time getting it 
healed, and that would be — Duty's Labor 
Lost. — They laughed at the pun. 

“Very well. Doctor, just let my hair alone 
and when I get well I'll untangle it." 

“It would be so tangled and broken that 
you would have to cut it off," he said in mock 
consternation. “Just let me comb it for you. 
I won't pull, honest I won't." At last she 
gave in and he deftly loosened the long gold- 
en braids and with exaggerated care, 
combed, brushed and re-braided it. 

“You told me one day that dad liked big 
blue bows tied on the braids," he said, “and 
you made me hunt for some ribbon. I found 
some of my mother's and tried to tie pretty 
bows, but I made a failure of it. You liked 
it all right though, and laughed like a kid. 
Why, you are crying. What have I said that 


Lonesome Trail. 


27 


hurt you? Are you ill, Comrade — Mrs. 
Chandler? Speak to me.” 

Great choking sobs shook her little body. 

'‘Dear, good, kind dad,” she sobbed. "He 
was so precious to me, and loved me almost 
as much as I loved him. He would not go 
into society as mother wished. She was a 
cold, worldly woman and did not understand 
my father. She — she divorced him, and — 
and he went away. I was only a little girl 
then, and when he left, I lost my only dear 
friend. You made me think of him, then. 
He always insisted on the blue bows. If he 
could have been with me, I wouldn^t be here 
now. Mother almost forced me to marry 
Ralph because he had so much money. I 
didn't love him — I couldn't.” She cried brok- 
enly, unreservedly. 

"There, there, don't cry. I'm sorry I re- 
called the bitter-sweet memories. Please, 
Mrs. Chandler, you are wearing yourself 
out. There, now, that's a nice little woman. 
Shall I read to you, or would you prefer mu- 
sic?” he asked, tenderly, trying to help her 
forget. She did not answer. He picked up 
the harp, sat down by her bed and played a 
soothing liquid melody. Slowly she became 
calm. The tired lids drooped over her wist- 
ful eyes, and she slept. 


28 


Lonesome Trail. 


* * * ♦ ♦ 

Slowly the long, cold days dragged on. 
Comrade^s health steadily improved; the 
sparkle returned to her eyes; the delicate 
pink suffused her cheeks, and her beautiful 
body again took on its roundness and grace- 
ful symmetry. With her returning vitality 
came a desire to leave her bed and sit by the 
roaring fire. Victor was afraid she was not 
strong enough to sit up, so he kept promising 
her that she might rise from her tiresome 
bed on the morrow. She grew tired of al- 
ways delaying, so he reluctantly pulled a big 
armchair nearer the broad hearth. He found 
one of his mother's warm, wooilen . robes, 
made her put it on and then lifted her bod- 
ily and placed her gently in the chair. She 
clung to him weakly, and he feared that she 
was going to faint, but she smiled broadly 
into his eyes and murmured — “I — I am quite 
strong now." 

“Yes, thank God, quite strong." 

“I am never going to bed again," she 
laughed. “Tm so tired of beds." 

“You will want to go back to your soft pil- 
lows and warm blankets inside the next half 
hour," said Victor. 

“I won't, I won't, I won't," she repeated 
firmly. “Doctor Knowitall, you just wait 
and see if I do." 

“Very well, then. Sit up all day if you 


Lonesome Trail. 


29 


wish, but I know you are too weak,” he re- 
plied. “Are you comfortable?” 

“Just need a cushion and then Fll be as 
snug as a bug in a rug,” she laughed. He got 
the cushion and placed it behind her lovely 
golden head. 

“Now, is that all right? I must go to the 
kitchen now. Your honorable cook has a 
rather provoking time among the pots and 
pans. I am glad to say, though, that you are 
a great deal easier pleased when you are in 
your right mind that you were when delir- 
ious. Then you insisted on having sugar put 
in your soup and salt in your coffee. I 
begged and pleaded with you, but to no avail. 
I believe you would have screamed at the top 
of your voice if you hadn’t had everything 
topsy-turvy as you wished. One day you or- 
dered me to make some coffee cake, and I, 
not knowing the first thing to do, asked you 
to tell me how. You did, you sure did. I 
didn’t have any eggs, but we had flour, sugar, 
coffee, and plenty of snow water. I mixed 
the ingredients the best I could and put it in 
to bake. It browned nicely and looked good 
on the outside, but when I cut it, it was all 
black and lumpy because I had neglected to 
strain the coffee when I put it in. I brought 
you a slice to test and I do believe you would 
have eaten the awful stuff. You praised it, 
and cried when I took it away. Oh! it was 


30 


Lonesome Trail. 


fine! It smelled like a Chinese laundry, a 
fish-canning plant and a glue factory all in 
the same block.'' 

He rose hastily from his chair and went 
to the kitchen, but immediately returned, his 
brown hair tousled, and a long white apron 
hung by a strap over his ears. 

'Tlease ma'm, will you remove that pin? 
I forgot the tantalizing thing," he said meek- 
ly, as he adjusted it correctly and went sing- 
ing into the kitchen. Comrade did not know 
that he rushed in because he thought he 
heard her moan. 

In a few minutes he heard her calling al- 
most inaudibly: 

‘‘Victor — Mr. Bernarde ! Please come 
here and — and help me to my — my bed." 

He ran to her. 

“Don't laugh, now. Doctor I-told-you-so," 
she smiled. “I'm — I'm awfully tired and 
dizzy." 

He lifted her gently in his strong arms. 

“I'm not laughing. Comrade. I can't 
laugh when you are suffering," he said 
gravely, looking at her blanched face. 

He drew the blankets snugly over her 
shoulders. “Are you better?" he asked. 

“Yes." The long lashes lay upon her 
cheeks. 

“Victor?" 

“Yes, Comrade?" 


Lonesome Trail. 


31 


'‘May I sit up again to-morrow 

“Yes, dear girl, again to-morrow.^' 

* * * * 

Many long cold days followed. Comrade 
became stronger with each succeeding day 
and was soon able to take ‘the honorable 
cook^s’ place in the kitchen. She kept busy 
cooking, washing dishes, dusting and sweep- 
ing in the mornings. She spent the shorter 
winter evenings reading and making music 
or talking to Mr. Bernarde. 

Victor played beautifully on the piano him- 
self and Comrade wondered how he had 
learned music and art Vay up here in the 
big north woods. 

She begged him to tell her of his life, ask- 
ing him if he did not long to leave the deso- 
late country for different climes. His eyes 
twinkled mysteriously when she asked that 
question, and began at once to tell her how 
his twenty-seven years had been spent. 

“I was born here,” he said. “My father 
was government surveyor. He met and mar- 
ried my mother in Quebec. She was a tal- 
ented artist, authoress and musician. The 
first fifteen years of my life were spent here. 
My mother and father educated me, for I 
was the only child and after much thought 
they decided not to send me away to school. 
My father loved us very much and spared no 
expense and labor in procuring the many 


32 


Lonesome Trail. 


luxuries which my mother loved. She ex- 
pressed a desire for paints and music with 
which to pass the long lonely hours of his 
absence, hence the piano and harp, paints 
and palettes. My father died when I was 
almost fifteen years of age and my lovely 
mother soon followed him. Oh, how lonely 
and desolate the house was without them ! I 
locked the doors and traveled south. At 
Camp Lacroix I met one of my father's 
friends, a Captain Dane, who had been all 
over the world. His sea tales and stories 
created in me a desire to travel. I went to 
San Francisco and sailed away. I have been 
in nearly every nation on the globe. I learn- 
ed a trade that appealed to me; you see, I 
wanted to build permanent things of granite 
and marble and concrete. I built beautiful 
churches and cathedrals. In many of the 
foreign countries you will find them. 

'‘^hen you arrived at Camp Lacroix I 
was pretending to be the foreman there, as 
in the old days, for it was there I first made 
friends when I left home; but I was really 
on my way here, after engineering the con- 
struction of the Assuan Dam in Egypt. It 
is almost completed, and I will return for 
one more year of my beloved work there. 
About two months of every year I spend here 
at Lonesome House. In the crowded cities 
where men and women sell their souls for 


Lonesome Trail. 


33 


gold and paltry pleasures, and rot in vice 
and greed, t have to live. I become tainted 
or contaminated with their sins. This is 
God's crucible, and I come back to get re- 
fined. 

‘‘Man needs to be alone to hold close com- 
munion with God. I can't forget Him up 
here among His many beautiful masterpieces. 
His inspiring, wonderful snow-capped moun- 
tains, lifting their heads toward heaven, 
humble me. I become purged of every sin; 
the gold is refined, the dross cast out. My 
mother taught me to live clean and honor- 
ably, for somewhere a beautiful, lovely wo- 
man was living to be my mate, and I must 
always labor to be worthy of her. I looked 
for her among the butterflies of Paris, among 
the olive-skinned Senoras of Spain, among 
the dark Italian beauties, the gay Irish 
belles, and the golden-haired English maids, 
but my ideal was not there. It was God's 
will that I should find her in my own coun- 
try." 

He rose and paced up and down the room, 
his fine eyes serious. Comrade, waiting for 
him to continue, watched him as he endeav- 
ored to control himself. He stopped by her 
chair and when he spoke his voice was won- 
derfully tender and low. 

“Comrade, it is you whom I love. You are 
my ideal, my heart's desire. You must have 


34 


Lonesome Trail. 


known it long ago. Did you, heart of my 
heart, soul of my soul?'' his searching eyes 
sought hers. 

‘‘Yes, Victor, I saw it in your eyes. I 
heard it in your voice, and I felt it in the 
touch of your hand. Oh, how my heart has 
ached because I could not return such a won- 
derful love as yours, but as you love me, you 
will understand. Every emotion I ever had 
has been killed ; I cannot love nor hate, neith- 
er can I be happy or sad. I married Ralph 
Chandler because my mother wished it. I 
did not love him and now I must pay for my 
sin. Soon the time will come when I can go 
away, and you will forget me." 

4: ♦ ♦ ♦ 

A cry of agony arose from the depths of 
his heart. 

“No, no. Comrade, I cannot bear it." He 
held out his arms in appeal. “Come to me, 
sweetheart, and I'll help you to forget." He 
took her in his arms. “Don't you see, dear 
loved one, that only in me you can find peace. 
God thought of me when He gave you life, 
and He made me strong that I might protect 
you. He made us for each other. Darling, 
you do not speak. Can you not find room in 
your heart for me?" 

She drew away from him. “No, Victor, 
it is impossible." 

“Oh, dear God, what terrible thing have 


Lonesome Trail. 


35 


I done, that I am denied her love?” He 
leaned heavily against the mantel. Every 
noble feature was brought into high relief 
by the fire’s ruddy glow. Suddenly his face 
lit up with a joyous hope. 

‘‘Comrade you may learn to love me some- 
time. I understand how you feel. Your life 
seems blank and colorless. Your soul is dor- 
mant now, but when it becomes awakened 
you will love me, for it is God’s will. 
Though wide and divided are our destinies 
now, our souls were mated when He created 
them. Very soon we can leave here. I will 
take you to Vancouver, but there our trail 
divides. Mine will be the Lonesome Trail 
that I have always traveled without you. 
Oh, Comrade, if you knew how much I need 
you and long for you, you would come to me 
and then I’d travel the Enchanted Trail all 
the happy days of my life.” 

There was no response from Comrade. 
His musical voice trembled brokenly as he 
continued, his head was bowed in his hands : 

“Ah, my dearest, far is my work away; 
long and weary the miles that will be be- 
tween us. I must return to Assuan Dam. I 
will be there nearly a year before my work 
is done. If you ever need me, Comrade, call 
me and I will come. Back across the world 
I’ll come to you. 


36 


Lonesome Trail. 


♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ 

Far away in Egypt stood a tall, athletic 
young man, outlined against the copper-hued 
sky. He looked like a statue of perfect man- 
hood. In his eyes love shone brightly, for he 
was thinking of a little woman in New York 
whose hair shone around her face like a 
halo ; whose eyes were big and wistful, whose 
lips looked like an opening rosebud bathed 
in dew. He smiled at his busy men, and 
they, who loved their big, noble engineer, 
smiled in return, not knowing that a terrible 
longing was sapping his strength and slowly 
eating away his heart. 

At the same time Comrade was sitting in 
a lavishly decorated ball-room, comparing 
all the young millionaires with a big, bronze 
god whom she knew. Why couldn't she for- 
get the way his face lit up when he looked 
at her? Why would the tender, little memo- 
ries insist on torturing her? And why did 
that sharp pain clutch at her heart when she 
thought of him? The young man chattered 
idly at her side, but she did not hear him. 
She was so weary, so desolate and alone! 
There was but one man in all the world and 
he — ^where was he? It was December. ‘T'll 
be there nearly a year.” Would he return 
to ‘‘Lonesome House?” she wondered. She 
was oblivious to all the music, the dancing 
feet, the laughter and song about her. Again 


Lonesome Trail. 


37 


she sat in the big chair in “Lonesome House” 
and looked into the eyes of the man who held 
out his arms to her, saying tenderly : “Come 
to me, sweetheart, and rest your head upon 
my breast.” How tall and brave and dear 
he was, standing in the ruddy glow of the 
fire begging, pleading, longing for her. 

Comrade does not know how she reached 
Camp Lacroix. But she does remember ask- 
ing “Mother,” has Mr. Bernarde come home 
for his annual visit? 

“Why, bless your heart, yes. He has been 
here this month gone. Did you by chance 
hear of his illness, dearie? My puir boy has 
been verra ill. I doubt if you would know 
him at all, white and haggard as he is.” 

“Oh, where is he, mother? If he is ill he 
needs me, and I need him,” she cried. Her 
crumpled lips trembled and tears blinded 
her. 

“There, there, calm yourseF, dearie. He 
is about again now. Fll seek him for thee. 
Ah, there he is. See, upon the ridge there?” 

Comrade saw him standing, looking east- 
ward, a tall, erect, virile statue of proud de- 
spair. With a glad little cry she ran up the 
winding path. She paused to look at the 
haggard face, the dear wind-tousled hair, the 
beautiful sensitive mouth. 

The sun was slowly setting, spilling its 
brilliant colors over the western sky. 


38 


Lonesome Trail. 


Victor was yet unaware of her presence. 
He was thinking of the sunset they had 
shared long ago, and was trying to control 
the terrible longing that was consuming his 
body and wearing away his heart. 

‘‘Dear God, send her back to me,” he 
prayed. 

“Victor!” 

“Comrade! My Comrade. You have 
learned to love me, my darling?” 

“Yes, Victor, I love you.” 

Deliriously happy, he stretched forth his 
arms and with a hungry little sob she entered 
her Kingdom of Love. 






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